


Brushstrokes

by Ias



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Character Study, F/F, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-05
Updated: 2013-04-05
Packaged: 2017-12-07 13:47:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/749205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ias/pseuds/Ias
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jo is exhausted, burnt-out, and beaten down, but that's nothing new these days. The difference is that this time, she isn't alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Brushstrokes

When she can’t sleep and has nothing better to do, Jo sits in her motel room and stares at the wall. Well, technically she’s not staring at the wall but the painting hanging in front of it. That piece of mass-produced tedium is one of the few constants she has in her life. There’s not one state in the contiguous United States that Jo hasn’t crashed in at some point, and she’s pretty sure she’s only ever seen four different paintings. It’s like there’s some sort of massive interior-decorating conspiracy. 

Today’s specimen is the Charming Pastoral Landscape Number Three; some rolling hills, a few trees, a horse and buggy. It’s painted in the blurry, watery style that’s supposed to make bad art look stylistic. Jo’s eyes feel like they’re weighted balls so heavy they’re breaking her skull, but she can’t seem to stop tracing every computer-printed brushstroke. Her hands are still in her lap, but her right fingers are dusted with gunpowder residue. Her shoulder hurts where the recoil of her sawed-off bit into it. Still, her brain won’t seem to power down. So she stares at the painting and waits for what comes next. 

The click of the door behind her should make her turn around, go for her gun, throw up the familiar old ferocity that’s kept her alive so far. She doesn’t move; her strings are cut, and she’s so damn tired. That’s how she knows who it is that closes the door, sets something heavy and metal on the table and slowly lowers onto the other side of the bed. She only ever come when Jo is too tired to know better, too beat to chase her off. 

“I see you’ve won another peaceful night for all the innocents tucked away in their beds. Congratulations are in order.” That accent is as familiar to Jo now as the shapeless faces in the painting. She sighs through her nose, or maybe it’s just a breath that she’s held for too long. 

“Thanks for the sarcasm, Bela. It’s always appreciated.” 

Bela is quiet, but Jo can picture her smiling. Maybe it reaches her eyes this time. “Perhaps you should follow their example. When was the last time you got a decent night’s rest?” 

“No rest for the wicked,” Jo says ruefully. “When evil doesn’t sleep, neither should I.” 

“Excuse me. I had no idea you were aspiring to be Batman.” Jo turns around and catches the wicked glint in Bela’s eyes, her legs crossed over the edge of the bed. She’s wearing a nice blouse and slacks, and she kicked off her shoes at the door. Jo’s always liked the way Bela dresses, although she’d never tell her that to her face. They’re probably supposed to be enemies. It hasn’t quite worked out that way. 

The smile quickly crumbles as Bela sees the bone-deep tired in Jo’s face. After a moment Bela stands, exits to the bathroom, and returns with a washcloth in her hands. Jo watches as she sinks to her knees in front of her, her eyes taking stock of the rips and bruises and tensions in Jo’s body. With surprising gentleness, she takes Jo’s hand and begins cleaning off the powder with the warm dampness of the towel, streaking the fabric black. 

“Why are you doing this,” Jo says after a while. She can’t summon the energy to turn the inflection into a question. “Following me around, checking in on me like that.”

“I have access to large amounts of money and potent magical artifacts,” Bela reminds her. “I can spare the resources to check in on a friend once in a while.”

“Friends,” Jo murmurs, the incredulity obvious in her voice. “When did that happen?” It’s a genuine question that neither of them seem to have the answer to. Bela’s eyes dart up to hers for a moment, inscrutable, before returning to her work. The cloth slides over her skin, and occasionally Bela’s fingers run down her own to brush away a persistent streak.

“I do it because I want to,” she says eventually, in answer to Jo’s first question. “And if there’s one thing I’m accustomed to, it’s doing what I want.” 

“I’m just some stupid hunter,” Jo says. “I’m not even that good at what I do.” 

“Not as good as those two saltshaker-wielding buffoons, you mean?” Bela says. “Please. They don’t interest me.”

“Then why do I?” 

When Jo realizes that Bela isn’t going to answer, she lets the silence grow between them and watches her work. Even after the powder is gone Bela continues to clean her hands, running the washcloth over old scars and dragging it over every nail. It’s a nice change from getting lost in the printed pastel landscape on the wall. 

Bela sets the washcloth down on the floor and Jo thinks at first that she’s done, but instead she reaches up to take Jo’s hand and run her fingers over the tendons, tracing them like they’re the wires of a piano. Her lips dip down to brush against the soft skin there, ghosting her knuckles, settling in her palm, pausing on her fingerprints like she’s trying to memorize them. At long last, Jo lets her eyes close, and feels nothing but the whisper of breath and skin and eyelashes.

Bela leans up to press her forehead to Jo’s as gently as if she’s made of glass. She’s not, though. She’s just now remembered that she’s not made of stone either. 

“Let’s sleep.” Jo doesn’t argue. As she settles into the blankets to the feeling of Bela’s fingers lacing into her own, she actually cracks a smile. It’s hard not to feel like she’s stumbled across something better than a bunch of shitty paintings to cling to.


End file.
